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not!
    “Spit it out, gel!”
    “It is—” From the ether, Prudence plucked a name. The previous evening she’d overheard two ladies discussing a man who was a famous recluse, an unmarried man who apparently never came to London. “He is the Duke of Dinstable!”
    There was a short, stunned silence in the room. Hope and Charity regarded her through astonished, drenched, beautiful eyes.
    “The Duke of Dinstable?” repeated Great-uncle Oswald, stunned. “You’ve entered into a secret betrothal to the Duke of Dinstable?”
    “Yes.” Prudence attempted a bright smile, desperately attempting to recall everything she’d heard the ladies say about him.
    “That fellow they call Hermit Ned?”
    She nodded.
    “Dinstable? Fellow who hates cities? Hasn’t been seen in London for years? Lives in some godforsaken corner of Scotland?”
    Prudence nodded again. She was starting to feeling quite pleased with herself. The Duke of Dinstable. It was positively inspirational. The Duke of Dinstable might be odd, even peculiar, but he was reputed to be extremely rich. And if he never came to London, Great-uncle Oswald couldn’t ask him to explain a secret betrothal. Of course he could always write, but letters took a long time and perhaps the reclusive duke would not answer. It was a reprieve, if only a temporary one.
    “The Duke of Dinstable? ” Great-uncle Oswald repeated, shaking his head in amazement.
    Prudence, tired of nodding, inclined her head.
    “How did you meet him, this Dinstable fellow, if he never comes to London? Imagine not liking London!”
    “He may not come to London, but there is no reason why he would not come to Norfolk,” she said, careful not to compound her sins by uttering any more actual lies.
    Her great-uncle frowned. “How old were you when you agreed to this demmed irregular arrangement?”
    “Nearly seventeen,” Prudence said. It wasn’t a lie either, not precisely. Not that she had even met the Duke of Dinstable, but she had become betrothed at sixteen—to Phillip Otterbury, whom she had known all her life. Phillip, who had sworn her to secrecy and gone away to India, promising to return a nabob.
    “You were only sixteen?” Great-uncle Oswald exploded wrathfully. “And you have waited more than four years for this blasted duke to come to the point and wed you?”
    Prudence nodded. Was it really that long?
    “No wonder your sisters have been chafin’ at the bit! Can’t blame ’em, now I come to think of it. Dashed casual attitude to take to m’great-niece. Four years! Why the devil didn’t you tell me?”
    Prudence didn’t reply. She could hardly meet his eye as it was, he’d been so kind and generous. But as soon as they were safe, she would confess it all. And she vowed she would make it up to him.
    “Dinstable, eh?” Great-uncle Oswald walked over to the fireplace, frowning. “Dukes, even rackety hermitish dukes, don’t just up and propose to chits of sixteen. You didn’t let him do anything to you, did you? Anything you shouldn’t have let him do.” He peered at her shrewdly. “You know what I mean, missy?”
    Prudence flushed rosily. “He never touched me,” she declared with complete truth
    “Hmm. And it was four years ago.” He frowned thoughtfully. “And why so secretive, eh? Not as if he were the younger son of a farmer, after all.”
    Prudence flushed. It was a perfect description of Phillip. “Grandpapa wouldn’t allow us any visitors at all, let alone suitors.”
    Great-uncle Oswald snorted. “Always was short-sighted in matters of business, Theodore. I don’t suppose this duke put anything in writing?”
    Prudence shook her head. “Grandpapa would never allow us any correspondence.”
    “Not even clandestine letters? Never knew the gel yet who didn’t manage a bit of illicit correspondence in matters of the heart.”
    She flushed and glanced at the fire.
    “Ah. Burned ’em, did you? Pity. Letters might have clinched the deal. I don’t suppose he